221 for the win!
by Tristan-the-Dreamer
Summary: Following KCS, this is a series of 221-word drabbles, all ending with a word that starts with "b."
1. Bane

A/N: I think it is Proverbs that says, "I am the most ignorant of men; I do not have a man's understanding." Well, I am the most ignorant of Sherlockians! I have very sketchy knowledge of timelines, and am definitely no expert on the Victorian era. So it is with a rather faint heart I follow KCS's 221 challenge, to write 221 stories, each 221 words in length and all ending with a word that starts with "b." I will see how it goes...this first one is set after "The Dying Detective" and I make a small reference to KCS's awesome story, "Love Covers All Wrongs."

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"That was a fine dinner," I remarked.

"Well, it was Simpson's after all," Holmes said lightly, shedding his sopping wet coat and hat and dropping them on the floor without a care. He looked at me for a reply, but nothing came to mind to say.

The conversation died right there in the sitting room and we eyed each other uneasily. Our rift had been repaired, but—we were not as easy as usual. The normal pace and instinct of our interactions had been thrown off, and we were having trouble regaining our stride.

Then I noticed Holmes weaving almost imperceptibly. "Off your feet, now," the doctor in me instructed firmly.

Grumbling under his breath, he crossed through the sitting room, swiping his pipe on the way despite my protestations.

"Three days without tobacco, man, have a pity." He tumbled into bed and leaned against his pillows, lighting his pipe. As he took the first pull, he glanced over at me and saw me eyeing the crumpled and disarrayed bedclothes with uncertainty. He smiled and removed the pipe from his mouth. "Yes Watson, if you would."

I carefully pulled the blankets up over him. "You do know it is my greatest honor to look after you, Holmes?"

He sighed. "You say that, but sometimes I fear I am your secret bane."


	2. Beetle

"Holmes, you are not in the middle of a case," said I, "so you have no excuse not to eat. You will be all the more prepared for the next case if you keep up your strength."

"If you would only turn around, you'd see there are more ways to be preoccupied than with a case."

The quality of his voice lent an image to my imagination of some strenuous endeavor. I put down my spoon and looked round. "Whatever are you doing?"

"Use my methods, Watson! What does it look like?"

"It honestly looks as if you have lost your mind. Why are you stalking about hunched over so, eyes fixed on the carpet? It seems you are following something, trying not to lose sight of it."

"Then perhaps I am. Is it impossible?"

I turned my chair round so I wouldn't have to keep holding my back in a twisted position. "Yes, unless you are following something much smaller than a human. Perhaps a dustball? But then, the window is not open. So it must be alive…yet I can see nothing from here."

All at once he pounced and came up again, gently holding something between thumb and forefinger. "You have eliminated the impossible, and here is what's left. You see, Watson, one can learn even from a beetle!"

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I like this beetle. I think he will come back. ^.^


	3. Backstroke

Holmes prodded the beetle thoughtfully as it traversed the creases of his palm. "I believe I will set him aside for later examination. That dish will do perfectly, thank you. I dare say the bacon is still hot?"

"Yes; I'm starting to feel cool, though."

"It is a crisp morning. Would you like to borrow my dressing gown?"

"That's kind of you, Holmes, but I think I'll fetch my sweater. I wouldn't want to chance getting bacon grease on your clothes." I didn't tell him the real reason for my refusal: the incredibly dense smell of tobacco that always clung to his dressing gowns.

By the time I returned, Holmes was contentedly munching his toast. "Feeling warmer now, Watson?"

"I should say so! What the devil is the beetle doing in my orange juice?"

His head snapped up and he whisked the glass from my hand.

"Don't--!"

"It's necessary old fellow, I don't want your drink to become a watery grave." He ladled the beetle up with his index finger and watched it crawl groggily about.

"I can't believe you stuck your bare finger--"

"Next time I shall take care to don my best gloves. I am sorry about it, Watson, really, but how was I to know he'd take a fancy to backstroke?"

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A/N: Whoa, I actually made a Victorian pun! ^.^ I like the way this one turned out. Maybe I am finding a better stride for writing little bitty stories. yay!


	4. Beakers

"Important day, Watson?" Holmes asked, facing his deal-top table.

Clinking of glass and swirl of a poured chemical filled the brief silence.

"You noticed that I marked my calendar."

"Yes. And I confess I am curious."

I looked out the window. "Reichenbach was four years ago."

"Oh? so it was," he replied evenly, stirring his concoction. "And that would make it one year since my return." He paused, then resumed stirring. "Sometimes I just can't understand how it would have mattered if I hadn't come back."

"What!"

"Honestly, you'd have built up a secure practice, most likely gotten married again...I'm just a small piece of your life, and would have been replaced."

I checked the flash of hurt that arouse from his casual mention of my first marriage, knowing he meant no harm. Instead, I focused on the last sentence, which in a way hurt more. "Holmes, you listen to this. You are more than a person to split rent with. When I thought you were...dead...I didn't sit down on a rock by the fall and brainstorm where I'd live next."

He added some powder to a test tube.

"I don't want you to ever think your death would have been forgotten," I concluded firmly.

Holmes did not look away from his beakers.

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A/N: I tried to inject a bit of coolness into this one; I'd like to avoid too much fluff. I was also more daring than I usually am, with referring to important dates. I actually almost wrote that it was one year since Reichenbach. Um...no. DX


	5. Best

I watched through the window as snowflakes glittered in the blue evening light. "I still wish you had come with me; some things are best shared."

Holmes turned a page of his casebook. "You seemed to manage."

"You'll come for a walk tomorrow, though?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not." He flicked mechanically past another page, beginning to smoke his cigarette faster.

"Holmes, are you still brooding over--"

"No. And it's none of your business." He sighed shortly. "Besides, it wasn't my fault. What kind of woman who can afford French perfume, and chooses to wear it, also does the harshest housework? I can't make deductions from utter insanity and chaos!"

"And I suppose it's not your fault she took umbrage when you told her so?"

Holmes growled softly. "It was a small case, I'm certain I shan't miss it." The high colour in his face belied his words, as did the finger running round his collar.

When at last he looked up, as I knew he would, his grey eyes had a shade of self-deprecation. "So, Watson. Am I still the best and wisest man you have ever known?"

I raised a toast to him with the steaming mug I'd just found placed carefully on my side of the table. "The very wisest, and the very best."

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**A/N:** AW! I really like this one. ^.^ Again, I'm trying to restrain myself from waterfalls of fluff; also, I find that the restricted format of this challenge really, really helps to trim away the "fat" of a story. It's very cool!


	6. Blackness

I tried fretfully to find a comfortable position in my own bed as the clock struck nine. Spring colds were deucedly annoying; I couldn't breathe properly and every time I started to drop off, a rasping cough jolted me awake. It always crescendoed until I had to muffle it in my pillow, too.

Groaning under my breath, I looked towards the closed door. The sitting room gas was being turned down, which meant Watson was heading for bed as well. I drew a quick breath but checked my heedless call just in time.

I had been fighting with myself all evening, since the beginning of our after dinner conversation. In the end, I simply couldn't voice my request. It was absurd, so utterly absurd. I stared fiercely at the door, as if that would bring him. But, as I had dreaded, I heard the familiar creaking of him climbing the second flight.

It always made me feel better when he kept watch over my sickbed during long, miserable nights. He did it unbidden when I was very ill, but clearly he knew it was nothing serious tonight. And I would not allow myself to do something so childish as to ask Watson to sit up with me.

I sighed, coughed again and allowed myself to be swallowed by the despairing blackness.

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A/N: Awww... :( Something I believe strongly is that everyone retains this part in them, where they really appreciate being pampered, even if they don't need it for immediate survival. But...some people don't know how to express that when they need it most.

And p.s. I just realized that the wordcounter I've been using is off so…I don't even want to think about it. So I had to find a place to insert ten words, and man it's the thought that counts right??? Ugh…

I also realized I have been forgetting to put a disclaimer thing on my chapters. But I mean…we all know I didn't come up with these ideas, don't we? (I can't say the word characters, it grosses me out.) So yeah, A. Conan Doyle all the way eh?


	7. Bed

_"Holmes, is everything all right?" I asked as he started for his room._

_He gave me a sharp look, handkerchief halfway to his nose. "You said yourself it's only a cold."_

_"Yes, of course. It's only you seemed…nothing, really." I flushed and looked away._

_He paused before bidding me a goodnight._

Once alone in the sitting room I tried to focus on Henry Mayhew's***** first volume, but I couldn't ignore the painful sound of Holmes coughing into his pillow. In minutes I had tossed the book aside and was staring worriedly at his closed door.

He had seemed especially unhappy tonight, even taking his cold into account, and I wanted very much to go knock on his door. If all he needed was a glass of water or someone to take his temperature, I'd still have been willing and ready.

I would do almost anything to make Holmes more cheered or comfortable; sleep mattered naught when it came to friendship. I could already feel an affectionate smile growing at the thought of tending my friend, but as I faced the reality it died from my lips.

Holmes is a private man, and by his earlier behavior I could only suppose he wanted to suffer alone. Unable to bear it any longer I sadly turned down the gas and headed for bed.

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This one was a serious pain in the neck. Argh. DX

*****I am referring to the Henry Mayhew of "London Labor and the London Poor."


	8. Back

"Going out to investigate?"

"Yes. You'll come with me, of course?" I looked up after an unusually long pause.

Watson was leaning against the doorframe, brows knitted. "I…I was rather hoping to stay home this morning," he admitted softly, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"Confound it; I forgot you were up all night with that measles case. Well—"

"No no, I'm fine," he said quickly, a flash of worry in his eyes as he caught sight of the gun I was loading. "I'll fetch my own revolver and be back directly."

"Watson, wait—I don't want—"

He shook his head with a tired smile. "I'm not letting you go out alone when you're taking your gun, _and _extra bullets," he said, pointedly staring at the small convexity in my pocket. Turning, he stumbled up the stairs. I heard him pause once and knew he was sagging wearily against the banister.

I set my weapon down and clasped my hands behind my back with a sigh. It was cold even inside; Watson's injury would show no mercy.

There are times I feel so mean, so low, so selfish that I want to smash a flask against the wall. He gives me everything, and no matter how I wish it were different, I have no capacity to give anything back.

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A/N: Bleh. I have issues with formatting when it comes to a more fluid switching around of dialogue and thoughts. Well anyway I really have appreciated all the reviews people are leaving, it's much enjoyed! ^.^ I don't think I ever would have started this insanity if I hadn't been doing NaNoWriMo. I guess bits of insanity are like rabbits, perhaps? XD


	9. Bump

Finally, some fluff! ^.^ And to make certain that this is clear, I will say it now: I do not write slash. Ever.

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"Well, everything went as planned, didn't it?"

"Mm-hmm," Watson replied sleepily.

He had cocooned himself in the rug upon entering the cab; now his breathing was becoming deeper. The gentle swaying of the cab seemed soothing to him and I was not surprised when he began yawning.

I was surprised, however, when after an especially impressive yawn his head came to rest upon my shoulder. "Watson?" I asked nervously, prodding him. He mumbled something incoherent and burrowed deeper into the shoulder of my coat, quite asleep and quite comfortable.

My first instinct was to shove him off me but I controlled it, reminding myself of how exhausted he was. Even a short nap would surely help his fatigue, and he couldn't rest when we returned to Baker Street—he had a patient at half-past twelve.

I felt him stir, and glanced down at his face. The deep blue circles under his eyes were enough to strengthen my shaky resolve.

I must not wake him.

To my relief, the constant pressure on my shoulder became less and less uncomfortable. The next time he nestled against me I smiled. A few streets more, and I inclined my head until it rested beside his.

Of course, this was only to steady Watson. It wouldn't do for him to be woken by a sudden bump.

* * *

A/N: *faints* I worked very hard on this one and am proud of it for sure.


	10. Bad

**Edit:** So I have lots of ideas for this next arc, unfortunately they are going to require a trip to the library and a serious internet search for information of the medical, social, cultural and architectural type. And then after I spend, you know, 10 hours writing it all, it will be read in five minutes. *headdesk* It's the life of the 221b ficlet writer I suppose.

I have been doing serious thoughts about how to go about these little ones, and I realize that to write them I must have trust in the reader. I have to choose forceful, concrete, descriptive words and set them up to trigger your own mental images, trusting that even if everyone takes the building blocks and creates something unique for themselves, it will still be the basic blueprint I had in mind. It's a shaky step to have something you want to say, but since you don't have enough words you must set the spring and hope the reader will put forth the effort to let the beautiful images explode out into the imagination.

Sooo...philosophy aside, I have a handful of half-finished little ones so the plan A is this--research a lot and hope to get a filler story up a week, and after this arc is finished we'll see how it goes.

I really am insane, aren't I? Oh well.

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This picks up after the last chapter; get ready for some grit. I'm seriously going out on a limb to add historical accuracy, so any suggestions/critiques will be accepted with a blush of incompetence. Onward, onward! We must always strive…excelsior!! Oh and the research I've done so far was at VictorianLondon dot org. If I do research other places I'll add those names.

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"Ah, Watson, you're back! Do just glance at this experiment?"

"Can't, Holmes," he replied in a strained voice, heading for the cupboard where he kept spare medical supplies. "Don't have time."

"Oh, well…" I sighed and dipped my pen. "What's the address you've got there?"

Instead of starting, he cracked open his medical bag and began to fill it with varying bottles. "It belongs to a dwelling in the poorer area, and I must go there now."

"You didn't eat lunch."

"I'm quite aware of that, Holmes." Watson snapped his bag shut harder than usual. "I was hoping to get some sleep tonight, but…I've received a special request to treat a child with scarlet fever." He paused. "It's…it's one of those…" a shudder rippled through him. "Seems the other child died suddenly from the same ailment, and they still haven't buried the body. Been…two weeks."

"Oh God no," I whispered, dropping my pen. "Why, Watson? _Why?_"

"Can't pay for a funeral, don't believe in keeping the body in a coffin before burial…all different, all the same." He slumped against the wall, finally meeting my eyes. When he spoke his voice was an agonized whisper. "Holmes…please come with me."

I turned down the heat on the chemicals and went to his side. "Of course," I murmured.

This was going to be bad.

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A/N: Oh you better believe it, Holmes! Alas I must now turn my time to packing and finishing up my NaNo (five days left!!) so it'll be Sunday or Monday when the next chapter is up. I appreciate all the reviews so far, really guys, THANK YOU!! If I hadn't gotten reviews it's likely I'd have canceled this, or at least taken down what I had posted so far.

Oh, and I'm really sorry if I offend people with the one part in this chapter where, I don't know whether to call it swearing or what. I struggled with how to write that part, but this was the way it happened most naturally. If you think am wrong to write that, please tell me. I don't always know what is exactly the right thing! And I am a Christian so I want to do the right thing when I can. *nod*


	11. Bottle

This is not connected to the last chapter; read my author's notes on chapter 10 for my lengthy explanation. Yay.

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_"Give me that needle, Holmes!"_

_"No!"_

_"I tell you I've had enough of this!"_

_"I do what I must, you do the same. Now let go, damn it!"_

_"You're not yourself when you take this—this—"_

_"I said LET GO! Look out—Watson!"_

I sit on the floor, head buried in hands. It was an accident—during the struggle over the syringe it…it slipped, and—I can only say that I will never take that drug again. Never. I'll throw it all away tomorrow.

Watson groans in pain and I return to the moment, carefully adjusting the pillow beneath his head. He's still quite pale, and the image of lethargy. After he…after the drug had worn off and he'd collapsed, I was shaking too much to even move him to the couch five feet away. I'm not sure why I fetched my own pillow and blanket. Maybe it was the only way I knew to comfort him.

I glance up. The bottle on the mantle glitters so…my fingers twitch with nervous energy. I know I would be so much calmer if I…and anyway Watson needs me to be calm. He wants looking after at the moment, I have to be strong for him.

"And yet I wonder if I've ever had real strength," I chuckle bitterly, reaching for the bottle.

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A/N: I was cut up when I saw the beginning of Devil's Foot, and had to stop and do a cathartic writing here. I did some research on injecting cocaine (that sounds kind of weird…) the main site I studied was here-à .edu/Student_Services/Health_Services/Health_Education/atod/od_ It's an intense site so consider yourself warned. Anyhoo. Hope ya liked this one.


	12. Both

**A/N:** I am on a bit of a roll today. This follows the previous chapter but it's not exactly a sequel. In total there will be about four chapters that deal with cocaine, but it's a series of snapshots more than anything else, portraying situations that might come up. I am not going to rid Holmes of it; "Seven-Per-Cent Solution" tackled that idea with more heart and guts than I could ever imagine. Well then, carry on...

* * *

"Holmes, why didn't you tell me your arm was hurting?"

"It's a bit awkward."

"How so?"

He played with his collar. "I thought I was being careful when I…erm…cleaned up last, but…"

I was rolling up his sleeve within the minute.

He squirmed and looked away as I examined his scarred arm. _My dear Holmes, why?_ "Looks like the beginning of an infection," I finally spoke up, probing an inflamed area I'd spotted.

"Yes, that is…what I thought."

"There's not much I can do at this point, except to clean and cover the area. However I don't think this will turn serious." I began to disinfect his arm, changing to a gentler pressure when I felt his muscle tense.

"Aren't you going to lecture me on the evils of cocaine?"

"Would it do any good?"

"Probably not."

"Well then." I bandaged the wound next, going by the tightness of his brow. "All finished. That will be five shillings," I teased.

He dropped his gaze. "Most people in your position would be screaming profanities."

"Because you repeat mistakes like all humans? You're my dearest friend, Holmes; I don't agree with this vice, but that will never change my affection for you. "

"I don't know about you," he stammered finally, "But I think you're the harder one to understand of us both."

* * *

**A/N:** Holy cat-tails, I cut this down from 460 words. Makes me wonder how much padding I generally use. 0o Well, I found a description of a typical Victorian doctor charge at...a website whose address keeps getting eaten here. Argh.


	13. Bed II

I was dimming the gas in my room when rapid, light steps came on the stairs.

Holmes burst in, jumpy and breathing rapidly. "It _wasn't_ a suicide!"

I collapsed on the edge of my bed with a groan. "I thought we had settled this over dinner."

"You also thought we'd settled it during the cab ride. I will not give in 'til I prove my point!"

"What point? Surely it's clear even to a child. The man had taken up morphine, had a ready supply and when his wife died of illness, he took an overdose. There was no one else in the house; or do you think the cat injected him?"

He began pacing the room, wringing his long hands violently. "I tell you it _wasn't_ a _suicide!_"

"Holmes," I began quietly. "Is it impossible he succumbed to grief and took his life?"

He stiffened, turning from me, and I could see the tension in his thin back. "No," he whispered at last with a great effort. "And there lies the problem."

"Because if it happened to him, it could happen to…anyone?"

He nodded, proud shoulders sinking, and turned to the door. "I'm making a fool of myself, Watson, and it is late. Goodnight."

"No, Holmes." I turned up the gas. "Let us talk awhile before I go to bed."

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**A/N:** I was jolted into writing this after reading that morphine was a big factor in Victorian suicides.


	14. Back II

I found Holmes bustling about the sitting room one spring day; he paused in his activity and looked up as I entered.

His face was inscrutable save for the flicker of his brows that told me he didn't _want_ it to be inscrutable. What was he trying to tell me?

I fell into his methods.

His dark hair was unruly, almost standing on end—he'd been running his fingers through it, undoubtedly. The sitting room was strewn with papers and beakers and books; his left hand was blackened with ink and there were spatters on his vest front. He must have been working hard all day while I tended my patients.

Finally I looked to the mantle.

The bottle was full. It had not been touched.

Holmes saw my eyes go there and for a moment there was a look of such eagerness and hope in his face that I wanted to cry. He was trying so hard, and he was so proud…he set about stacking books with his inexhaustible nervous energy.

"Holmes, I've an idea. It's so nice out, that we might—"

"Take a walk together, yes, a splendid idea!" He bounded to my side, seizing his hat and coat on the way. He gripped my arm tightly as we left the room, but he did not look back.

* * *

A/N: Oh, well done you! I'm proud of you myself, Holmes. Note that the bottle is still there though. He has a long way to go yet, and I doubt I'll see him to the end of the road.

Anyway, I absolutely love this chapter. :3

Next chapter will be very light-hearted. Rough draft is done…


	15. Boy

A/N: Woops...okay, I'm not a sadist, let's clear this up. I know I SAID this would be a light-hearted one, but the one I was thinking of is giving me some trouble so I'm shelving it for now. This one...yeah, it's a bit dark. heheh, sorry about that.

* * *

"Didn't mean to startle you, Mr. Holmes."

"Who the devil _are_ you?"

"I thought you knew everything." He sounded disappointed.

"Not everything, no. Just most of it," I replied, sponging off my sleeve. Thankfully it wasn't acid. "Offhand I'd say your mother brought you to see Dr. Watson, and you sneaked up here while she was speaking with Mrs. Hudson."

"That's right. I hoped you would be doing your experiments—I've an interest in chemistry m-myself."

"Would you like to sit down?"

"But then I won't have nearly as good a view. And I want to see you add the sodium bicarbonate."

"Are you planning on attending University?"

"I was, but…there's no hope for that anymore."

"Why?"

He looked away. "Every doctor says I have three weeks left. My mother says there's hope, but I know the truth…it's funny, Mr. Holmes. A person can be certain about their future, and then…everything changes." He coughed painfully into his sleeve. "I'm sorry. It's not contagious," he explained, colouring.

I waved my hand in dismissal. "Have you ever conducted an experiment yourself?"

"No."

"Come here, then, and I'll walk you through this one."

"I can never repay you for this," he whispered, settling himself in my chair.

I steadied his thin arm as he picked up the beaker. "Think nothing of it, my boy."

* * *

A/N: I think I sort of depressed myself with this one....Sigh. Oh, and I figured Watson mostly made housecalls, but this is a different situation. Anyway, reviews are always welcome! Oh and KCS, I said "sneaked," not "snuck." That's the correct grammar, right? So there's my present to you! Merry CHRISTmas!!! ^.^


	16. Back III

I stood atop the small scrub-covered bluff. A jumbled belt of saplings danced below my wind-carved throne; they were all splashed with golden light and every bit the equal of the coyote pup racing across dark and rippling grass. The edges of his reddish, wind-spun coat glowed golden, and silhouetted against the west as he was I could see his delicate profile and panting mouth.

Holmes and I were taking a holiday in the states, chiefly to visit Holmes's friend, Wilson Hargreave of the New York Police Bureau. As long as we were across the pond, it seemed reasonable to do some explorations of our own and I was thoroughly enjoying it. To my secret delight, no one had as yet pushed a fresh case onto my (often haggard) friend, and the rare chance to rest had been strengthening his mind and body.

I smiled now, as I saw Holmes poking about a rock pile near the birch. He straightened suddenly, hands cradling something delicate and sharp eyes seeking my person. I called to him, his grin widened and he broke into a brisk trot, covering the distance between us.

"Watson, look at this!" Holmes chuckled, slowing his pace as he drew near, eyes twinkling and gloved hands cupped. "Have you ever seen a spider with a violin on its back?"

* * *

A/N: This would, of course, be a Brown Recluse. DX Hopefully those are really thick gloves…oh man this one's funny methinks...


	17. Behavior

A/N: Erm...any prizes given for erratic writing? XD Oh man...my brain is everywhere. Well, strange how the brain controls the brain...I spent about two hours straight writing this chapter. That makes me feel both stupid and comfortably geeky. Ugh. Oh, yeah, I should tell you what this is about, yeah...well it's a "missing scene" sort of, from Priory School. I guess you'd call it more an expanded scene? Idk...and yet again I will say, I do not write slash. Nope.

* * *

"Awake, Watson? Excellent, for I have much to tell you." Holmes hummed cheerily as he strode into my room.

In silence I watched him rummage through his pockets; I was uneasy, had been all evening.

"Watson, look here. This will be a great help to us, if I'm not mistaken." Holmes began to unfold an ordnance map all over my bed. His humming ceased when he found my calcaneus altered the topography, and he poked at it in a bothered way until I shifted.

"Holmes?" I asked quietly, drawing my knees to my chin and clasping my hands round my shins.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to come with you, tonight. I would have come…if you had asked."

"I know you would have, Watson." He smiled affectionately at me as he balanced the lantern on the map. "None know it better than I. And tomorrow, we shall have a good run, two old hounds as I said! But tonight…was tonight." Holmes finished steadying the lantern with his delicate fingers and would speak no more on the subject.

I gave a resigned nod, which changed to a smiling shake of my head as he made himself comfortable on the end of my bed and began to fill his pipe.

I truly loved this man, even if I never found the reasons for his behavior.

* * *

A/N: Darn it! I totally just realized that it's...oh you know. I flipped the order of stuff. Okay, it's an AU extended scene! Yay. Looking on the positive, I think I established an emotional atmosphere I don't usually deal with...acceptance of what you cannot control, relinquishing the attempt to control everything. Goin' with the flow...


	18. Better

A/N: This is unconnected to any preceding chapters. Yay.

* * *

"Holmes, Mrs. Hudson says lunch—"

"I'm not insane!"

"I never said you were." Frowning, I poured a glass of water and placed it in his trembling hand.

I busied myself stacking his papers, but didn't get far.

"Sorry, Watson, I'm alright…stress wrecks havoc on my swallowing mechanism. Perhaps…if it had been a working-class man, someone more prone to vulgar thoughts and jokes…but this man was far more upper-class than you or me."

I took the empty glass. "What man?"

"I don't know, I never want to see him again. He said things—too horrible to repeat."

"You know I'm always here for you."

"I do know that." The taut lines in his face eased briefly, before the shadow returned. "Well…this 'gentleman' was quite odious. Said no normal man would behave as he had read of me; he said I was insane, so my mother must have been insane. And he said…we were insane because—well, it wasn't emotions, nor alcohol."

"I don't care who he was," I said shakily. "That's ignorant and vile, and he is no gentleman."

"And people heard! In the streets, right there, they heard what he said! I'll not show my face ever again." He sighed into his hands. "Watson…I'm not insane, am I?"

"No, Holmes. The man's behavior was absurd; he should have known better."

* * *

A/N: When you think about it, Holmes is not exactly the cookie-cutter Victorian gentlemen. A man of extreme ways, when it was temperence in manner that was prized. I believe this is why he was so loved from the start. He is who he is, and culture be darned. He takes the kernal of his culture, the values of justice and charity it rests on, and throws away the silly trappings that come up and start to hide the root. You know what I mean? He is not some anarchist, he just takes the best of what he sees and laughs at social conventions when they have no logical base to them.

And some might scoff at this and say, he's not like us! So he must be bad.

I found a very interesting paper concerning Victorian views on psychiatry, especially focusing on the novel "Jane Eyre," and talking about how insanity was viewed and treated. The link is thus--let's see if I can do this. And heads up, some of the information is a bit graphic. http://www DOT umd DOT umich DOT edu SLASH casl SLASH hum SLASH eng SLASH classes SLASH 434 SLASH charweb SLASH DIAGNOSI DOT htm

*stretch* Research, reseach, all around and not a sequel yet! But they will come...


	19. Bad II

A/N: I'm rather surprised at how few…zero?...fanfics I've found that deal with the Turkish Bath. They both loved to go there. Perhaps the deal is the connotation of homosexuality, but if you worry of that, believe: I will never write anything like that. ^.^

This story is the first time they go to the Bath together, and I imagine a bit of awkwardness…xD Please realize that as a girl, it's a challenge for me to write this type of scene. It takes lots of "putting myself in others' shoes," rather than drawing on personal experience. Bleh, and I'll admit--I'm tired and discouraged. I mean is anyone really going to care if I keep writing or not? I know I shouldn't mind too much about that, but you know..sometimes it feels like you release a bird so it can fly and tell the world your story. But what's the use if noone cares about the song it sings?

Oh I'm just speaking nonsense I guess. Well, see I'm nervous and irritable because I am going to try to put up the rest of the "Scarlet Fever" arc tonight, jumping back to where "Bad" left off. I just feel like it will be stupid, though I tried...oh, it's just life. Carry on...

* * *

"Stop being absurd!"

"I? You're the one who hasn't even taken his socks off!" I retorted.

"Well…my shoes are off."

"Holmes, everyone's shoes are off; you've been here before."

"And so have you."

"Even so. And your socks are still on."

"What is wrong with my socks? I think they're very fine socks."

"You're embarrassed."

"That's absolute nonsense, Watson."

I heard a soft sigh, and turning round realized that both the servants had looks upon their faces as if they did not know whether to laugh or cry. I also realized that our voices had been getting rather louder than they should, considering where we were.

"You're quite timid for a Doctor," Holmes muttered, picking at the toe of his sock.

"I could say the same for a supposedly hardened detective." Glaring, I unbuttoned the top button of my shirt. "There!"

"Oh bravo, they'll be knighting you next."

"Well I wasn't expecting a…are you laughing at me?"

"I'm sorry, Watson—" Holmes was cut off when my shirt landed on his face. Suffice it to say, our following behavior was not appreciated by those who patronized the bath in hopes of finding peace and lassitude.

A few minutes later we were walking to the first hot room, wrapped in towels.

Holmes turned to me and grinned.

"Well that wasn't so bad."

* * *

All research on Victorian Turkish Baths was done at http://www DOT victorianturkishbath DOT org SLASH

And there will be another Bath story coming up very soon. ^^


	20. Break

A/N: Wow, took me long enough...this is the follow-up to "Bad," chapter 10 I believe. And this is rather graphic, be warned. Annnd it's a double, so 442 words. Let the curtain rise...

* * *

"Remember, Holmes," Watson murmured through pale lips, "you must touch nothing, and do not get too close to the…the…"

"I'll be careful." I stayed close beside him, breath catching at the room's stench. Watson was nearly staggering with fatigue and I grasped his arm as we crossed the floor in darkness, heading for a bed pushed against the stained wall.

We could faintly see the mother, dress patched, sitting on the edge of the dilapidated bed-frame. She held her daughter wrapped in a flour sack blanket.

"Please help me, Doctors," she pleaded, voice echoing. "My husband died last autumn in a factory accident, now my youngest child's followed…no money for a funeral, doctors—it can't be helped. It's not right, my little baby…" she choked, looking to a dark corner, where the buzzing of flies could be heard. "It's not right." Her voice lowered to a whisper as she buried her face in the girl's unkempt hair.

"Have you no other family to help you?" Watson began, breaking off at the child's whimper. By the labored breathing and congested cough, it was plain even to me she had developed the complication of pneumonia. Her bony hands clutched her throat as she looked at us each in turn.

"One moment, my child, one moment," Watson soothed, his brow furrowed. He opened his medical bag, and took out a container of clear liquid. Uncapping it, he handed it to her—she received it with both small hands. "This is cold, it will help the pain in your throat," he explained, watching carefully to make certain she would not choke.

Deciding that Watson wouldn't want to be crowded, I wandered away to the grim corner. There weren't many choices, and I felt morbidly drawn. I stopped several feet away to please Watson, and my sense of smell, before looking at the pitiful corpse. 'Twas dressed in a mended shift, and I saw a name carefully embroidered on the hem in cheap thread.

The droning of greedy insects gradually drew my attention, and when I sharpened my gaze I could see the flies crawling about the body. They were a rare type, I realized, but I felt no joy at it.

She was such a delicate child, so small…

"She needs to be taken to hospital," Watson's voice broke into my consciousness.

I looked back, and found the child had turned her eyes to me. "My sister…make her better." Her voice was raspy; tears ran down her face and she shivered from fever and fear. "Please, doctor…I want my sister back."

I turned away, trying to understand…if I had no heart, what was I feeling break?


	21. Burdened

A/N: Fluff interlude. ^^ I don't mean to disappoint, but I wasn't going to develop the Scarlet Fever arc much more. I have two chapters drafted to wrap things up, but it's more of a reaction to the situation, I wasn't going to show the mother and daughter more. Anyway, while I get the emotional tone correct, I thought I'd toss in this fluffers.

* * *

I lay bedridden in the dark, pressing my head against the wall to absorb some of its coolness. A knock came on the door, but my eyes stayed closed. "That you, Holmes?"

"Yes." His soft footsteps crossed the carpet. "I must leave now, Watson; Lord Breckenridge cannot wait any longer and the last train is on its way to the station. You understand, of course."

I groaned softly, forcing my eyes open. He was near my bedside, silhouetted in the dusky light of drawn curtains. "I do wish I could come, Holmes; I want to help with the case."

"No time for regrets," Holmes said briskly. "There's not much that we can control, so let's save our strength to manage what we're able. Oh I did want to leave this with you, Watson."

"Thanks, but I have a handkerchief already."

"I'm aware of that." He stuffed it in my hand and made to leave.

"It smells like—Holmes, did you rub your pipe—"

"I'm going to miss the train, Watson, I shall see you in three days' time."

He was gone.

It was one of his older handkerchiefs; the worn softness was comforting against the side of my face and it smelled just like my friend. I relaxed, allowing myself to drift asleep.

My spirit did not feel so burdened.


	22. Book

a/n: Was just having a midnight snack and this conversation came to me. Seemed a pity not to write it down. Ah yes, I have finally realized that I can write Holmes being a bit nasty. I am too nice in writing, most times! XD

* * *

"Why did you take a dislike to that lady, Holmes?"

"She had an umbrella with her, and it is cloudless to-day."

"But that's--it seems you decide a person's worth by their brain, as a dentist evaluates his patients' teeth."

Holmes looked up from a heavy volume. "Forgive me, Watson, I missed a link in your reasoning chain. How do you find fault with me and not the dentist?"

"Because the dentist's perceptions are not ruled by his job. He has his home life, and errands of course. Though he may well notice the teeth of passers-by more than, say, a businessman, he is able to see other facets to people as well—for example, their personality."

"Yes, I see your point. I neglect personality completely. In fact I have been all wrong in judging the character of a person by how diligently they cultivate their great resource of a brain, and whether they choose to use it for good or evil. I must size people up using the normal way. Did you happen to see what type of purse the lady carried?"

"Holmes…I confess I am speechless."

"Apparently not entirely. However I have not the patience to complete the cure myself, so if you would just stay quiet, I can finish my studies."

He turned again to his book.


	23. Bite

His room was murky in the dark cider of twilight; though I'd had the gas half-on when last I came to check on him, it was now completely off.

"Holmes?"

I heard the rustling of bedclothes.

"Holmes, I let you get away with this during the case, but it's over now. Holding out on your fast is not going to do anyone good, least of all you and me."

My eyes began to adjust to the dimness, and now I could see he was staring at the ceiling, arms crossed.

"I know you're upset," I continued, threading my way around mountains of books and sundry to reach his bedside. "But you have to eat. Look, you don't even have to get out of bed. I brought you some soup."

He groaned quietly, laying an arm across his eyes. "I'm not hungry."

I sat in a chair beside him, feeling my throat tighten as I studied his gaunt face. It wasn't his fault the client had died…why did he have to take everything on himself?

There was a long moment of silence, before his nose twitched and he peered at me from under his slightly-raised arm. "Is that Mrs Hudson's vegetable soup?"

"The very one."

"Well…" He sighed and slowly began to sit up. "Perhaps I could just have a bite."

* * *


	24. Boxing

A/n: I don't know what it is, but…there's something special in this one. I can't explain, but I love it!

* * *

"I was right, was I not, Watson?" Holmes grinned triumphantly, accepting his drink from the bartender and guiding me to a table in the sun. "I knew you'd like this place."

I nodded approvingly. "The design is wonderful, especially that wooden banister on the landing. Lovely carving... how long have you been coming here?"

Holmes' eyes had already fixed themselves on the tabletop; he ran his finger along the grain a few times, lips moving silently, before he dug out his measuring tape. I watched him, gradually becoming aware of the table behind us.

"It's just as well you don't get the Strand; the newest story by Dr. Watson is worse than ever. Treacle? Why, I could have spread it on my bread!"

My content smile grew stiff, and I set down my drink quietly, with an unsteady hand.

Holmes paused as my drink intersected his line of vision, and looked up. I could only look back miserably, feeling myself flush as the men grew even louder and ruder.

There was a clatter as Holmes threw down the measuring tape, stood up and strode past me, rolling up his sleeves.

I turned around quickly to watch.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," Holmes said icily. "I highly recommend you find a new form of amusement--unless, that is, you're in the mood for boxing."


	25. Bath

A/n: Remember the scarlet fever arc I had going like five years ago? Ok, not really. Well anyway I feel like a moron because I had this chapter all done, basically, and for some reason I just left it on my hard drive. Um, well here it is at last. There will be one more chapter after this to wrap the story up. Good gravy...XD

* * *

"Holmes! Wash your hands before you eat!"

"You've made me do so twice already. Now sit down and quit that infernal pacing."

"But did you use soap? Lots of soap?"

"On my honor. Are you planning on eating?"

"I think your neck is getting red--in fact I'm sure it is. Open your mouth."

"My tongue is coated in salad, not red dots, I assure you. Watson, really, your worry is for naught—we were both exceptionally careful to avoid contamination. And even supposing I was ill, I wouldn't have symptoms so soon. Your mind is playing tricks on you, old fellow."

"I know you're right, Holmes…but I can't help it. I can't think straight. I'm—too exhausted to sleep, but too tired to stay awake. I don't know what to do with myself!"

I lay down my fork and turned to face him with practiced drama, although my mischievous smile nearly faltered as I saw him gripping the armchair to hold himself up. "What if I told you I was planning on paying both our way after dinner at Northumberland?"

"Are you being serious?"

"Quite. I thought that would cheer you! Now do eat something."

He joined me at the table with a sigh. "Holmes, nothing could make me happier right now than the thought of going to the Bath."


	26. Breath

A/N: A million thanks to AmatorLinguae for dropping this plot bunny in my lap and letting me play with it. Don't forget to read her 221b series too! Thanks again, A.L.

* * *

I paused, cocking my head. There it was again, I distinctly heard my name. Sighing, I tossed down the newspaper and followed the call to...

My ears had to be deceiving me.

"Watson?"

"Finally! Thought you'd never come. Look Holmes, I got some new ideas for my story and by the time I finish my bath, I may lose the exact turns of phrase. Could you just grab some foolscap and jot a few things down for me? That is, um, unless…were you in the middle of anything?"

"No, no, nothing important," I sighed, going to hunt down the writing materials. I returned quickly and sat against the door, my knees drawn up to make a rudimentary table. "Fire away, Watson, my pencil is poised."

There was an awkward pause.

"Watson? I said I'm ready."

"You...you won't laugh, will you?"

"Not intentionally."

"Holmes, you must understand these ideas aren't polished yet--they're straight off the top of my head and--"

"Yes, yes I understand."

"Sort of...diamonds in the rough, you might say..."

"_Watson!_"

"All right! All right!"

There was an anxious splashing.

By now he could have dried, dressed and re-written the Magna Carta.

At last he cleared his throat and, hesitantly at first but growing in confidence, began to dictate.

I did not laugh...at least, not above my breath.


	27. Back IV

A/n: Hmmh. I experimented a bit with style here, and I don't know if I like how it came out. I do think this is a sweet one, though. ^^

* * *

I stared out my rain-sloshed window, the musical patterings improvising a naturalistic and refreshing melody. Cracking open the sash, I sniffed the damp air as if it was a fine wine. The deluge intensified even further; great drops ricocheted off the sill outside, bursting into beads like liquid fireworks. They were like so many crystal globules, indescribable in their passionate, fluid ballet. Blue-white lightning splashed the buildings with supernatural paint, then just as quickly stole it away. I reached for pencil and paper to record this raw beauty…

A terrible roar raged from the heavens, sweeping into the room and pounding over me. Choking on my heart, I tore open my door and flew down the stairs, bursting into Holmes' room and gasping in the doorway.

He looked up from the papers covering his bed, and raised an impatient brow. "Yes, Watson?"

"I was—I—I suppose I was startled…that's all."

Holmes snorted. "By the thunderclap? Good lord, Watson, I'm in the middle of research here! I don't have time to calm irrational fears with nursery rhymes."

I grew so flushed that I felt feverish. "Of—of course not, Holmes. G-good night." I was making for the door when there was a crunch of papers and creak of bedsprings, and I found something catching at my sleeve.

"Oh, Watson, come back."


	28. Better II

A/n: Hmmh. What do you think?

* * *

"Do come back for a bit, Watson; I don't much mind."

I looked away. "No, you're right; it's terribly childish of me, and--"

I choked as every item in the room expelled shadows that raced across the floor and up the bright walls—Holmes looked a phantom with jarring patterns of light and dark running across him.

Our eyes met uncertainly in the flickering gaslight following the lightning; I could not speak for the tightness in my throat.

When the thunder finished crashing, I opened my eyes to find that somehow my chin had come to rest on Holmes' shoulder, and my arms were around his thin back. He stiffened, tried to pull away--but I could not let go; I clung so tightly that I could feel his heart beating rapidly.

After some time he grew less stiff, and I felt one of his arm wrap around me, resting on my back. He spoke quietly as I grasped the soft cloth of his dressing-gown in my spastic hands; I could not hear the words for the rushing of blood in my ears, but I heard his voice, rising and falling like waves on a beach.

Finally he stepped back from me, and met my gaze.

"All storms pass, Watson. I promise you; in the morning, it will be better."


	29. Bad III

A/n: Set somewhere near the end of the story, "Breaking Society's Rules." I thought it would be nice to have something from Holmes' POV.

* * *

I was much too sleepy to open my eyes at the creak of my door, but I listened with a glad heart to his slow footsteps padding to my bedside, and his customary sigh as he settled into the armchair.

He spent so much time in my room it had seemed sensible to have the armchair moved in.

"Hallo, Holmes," he said at last.

_Hallo, my dear friend._

"I hope you don't mind that I brought some writing…I had an idea or two and I didn't want to forget them."

_No trouble at all, Watson, scratch away._

More comforting sounds met my ears: the snap of his eyeglass case, then the fussy little noises he made when settling them over his nose…and there! The tiny clicks with his tongue as he got his thoughts in order.

He scratched at the paper for some time, then paused. "Holmes, I think I'd like to draw your portrait. My dear fellow!" He laughed. "You may not say as much as before, but that eyebrow of yours has taken over the job. How about I draw the portrait, but don't show it to the public? Good. Hold still now," he teased gently.

After a while of the scratching, I opened my eyes. "Let me see."

He held it up; I smiled at him. "Not bad."


	30. Broken

I crouch before the flickering fire, holding up a telegram. It is old…a clue to a riddle that was solved years ago. Still I try to find meaning in it--

for I find meaning in nothing else.

The world has long been robbed of hue; the moon must be high. A wind moans and I shudder.

I hide in the darkness…I hide from myself.

I wish he had not been called to a patient's bedside tonight.

I wish my mind would stop turning over and over and over and over, taking every word I've read or written, spilling them into a soup of letters, black and jagged and cutting me terribly.

I grasp the telegram, staring manfully at it—I must make sense of it. I must understand, though I know not what. I must find something--I try so hard to keep the meaning from crumbling between my fingers, all for naught.

I deceive myself so often, for so long—I convince my mind that I am of use to the world…because if I don't believe that, I will fall apart. If I don't know I'm needed—well, that's the end of it.

I am nothing but a man, in the darkness of his sitting room.

I rest my head on my knee, letting the telegram fall.

I am broken.


	31. Breathe

"The deeper one ventures, the wider yawns the cave. In the beginning we only see the crusty rim of rock about the entrance—we may pass by, or step in, but once in, Watson—ah, once we are inside—we are drawn deeper, and deeper still."

I paused to draw on my cigarette. He was watching me intently. "You look at a button and see a button. I look at a button and see when it was made, who made it, why they made it, where they made it, if they were a cripple and how their wife pulls weeds on Saturday afternoon."

He leaned forward. "It is a great burden, Holmes, I admit."

"That's only the beginning! When I look at the button hole, I observe how it was cut. Is it too large? A nervous hand, perhaps? The colour of the thread, the type of stitching. Is that type the normal one for the cut of coat? Quality of material? And anything I don't know, I must look up at once—"

"Holmes."

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Watson? The depth to which my mind can go is inexorable; whenever I think I've mastered something, the floor opens beneath me, and there's another level, more information, more connections to be made—"

He grasped my shoulders. "Holmes: breathe."


	32. Back V

I pace slowly about the flat, my eyes collecting pollen from everything: the carpet, in whose fibers countless clients have ensconced their footprints; the silkily writhing flames, I see them as if through thick glass--and the noises of London out the window, clops and bangs and yells. Birds twitter; their music tastes like cracked pepper on a salad eaten years ago.

I carry on my dreamy prowl in silence, and my ear pricks at thumps and muffled oaths above me. I trace the source, one creaking step at a time, and stand in the doorway.

His back is turned, his bed piled with boxes and bags. Drawers are flung open and the floor is littered with clothes and books.

The curtains blow in a fresh wind; I smell it, I see him, I remember everything, just as before.

All the same…and all terribly different.

My mind is split, seeing all that transpired, all that is happening and things still hidden from us. How does the world repose, while humans whirl about the surface in a frenzy of activity? How is it our flat stayed just the same, when we both changed so very much—could our life really go on normally?

Hand to head, I sank into a chair.

He looked over his shoulder. "Are you regretting my moving back?"


	33. Brain

* * *

What is wrong with my mind today?

It is empty, dead and barred like a fireplace grate. The bars are the fretful thing, as they prevent me from investigating the usurpers. Some new government, utterly foreign and despicably strange.

No words exist that could possibly explain what I'm experiencing; when I look into my brain, I see nothing but blackness. It is only to be expected. When there is no understandable language, the only options are silence or unintelligible noise.

Perhaps the problem is some malfunction between my eyes and brain? It's a possibility--that, or the brain has forgotten how to properly respond to information. Surely the information is _getting _there--I see all the objects in our sitting room, after all--yet they stir no thoughts in me, no spark of memory. I merely acknowledge their presence.

The real problem--though I barely understand--is that I see them as color and form, not ideas and associations. The pictures of criminals on my walls are only monochromatic splotches in rectangular frames. My top hat is a cylinder of ebony. The cocaine bottle is a vaguely interesting collection of sparkles, while the window is a transparent rectangle with images on the other side, moving about like a shadow show.

What will it take to give speech back to my brain?

* * *


	34. Better III

A/n: continuing from last chapter.

* * *

The shadows are very long when he returns from his rounds.

"What's wrong, Holmes? Are you ill?"

He sits beside me.

"Is anything real, Watson?"

"Of course it is. Don't talk nonsense! I'm real, you're real, the sofa is real."

I should have known better than to try to explain.

"Are you cold?"

"Yes." _In a way._

"I'll light a fire in the grate."

"That would be good."

He does so, and then drapes a blanket around me. "Your mind isn't here, what are you thinking of?"

"Nothing."

"What's happened? Did you get a telegram, bad news? Something about Mycroft?"

"No. Nothing like that."

"Just…a black mood?"

"Maybe."

"Well, I was planning on reading the newest medical journal before dinner. Mind if I read here, with you?"

He fetches the journal and returns to the sofa; the blanket has fallen off my shoulder, and he fixes it before beginning to read. He holds the pages flat, and now and then points out something of especial interest, mentioning how it might have been connected with such and such a crime.

I blink, and the pages he holds are covered with ink words telling information and news—and there, his hands are useful tools to save lives.

He looks at me after a while. "Better now, Holmes?"

_Yes, Watson; just a little better._


	35. Beating

"Watson, you can't take over Anstruther's patients."

"Oh? Why not?"

I slammed down my pen. "Because you're overloaded as it is. I don't care if he's got bronchitis—I don't care if he has the bubonic plague for that matter, he can find someone else to take over his rounds."

"There's no one else. It's just the way it is." He continued putting on his coat.

"But you've got nothing left--you're completely exhausted."

"I know, but I still have to help."

"Watson—" I clenched my jaw. "That's a mathematical impossibility; you can't have nothing and still keep giving away something."

He paused thoughtfully before fastening the last button. "You're right; mathematically, it is impossible."

"Then how the deuce are you doing it?" I cried.

He merely grinned, tapped his chest, and took his bowler hat from the rack. "See you at dinner, Holmes."

I stepped to the window and pushed the muslin curtain aside, just enough to peep out. I had only a minute to wait until he appeared and started towards a cab. I did not turn away until he was safely inside and on his way.

Then I recalled my question, and his response, involuntarily tapping my own chest as I replayed the conversation.

_Yes, Watson, you have a great heart…I only hope it will keep beating._


	36. Boring

"Holmes, shouldn't you take a break?"

He looked at me under sardonic brows. "As much as I might wish for the power to pause chemical reactions…"

"Aren't there any stopping points? Even foxhounds can't train nonstop; they have to eat and sleep as well."

"I'm a hound made of machinery. I don't need those things…much," he amended at my snort of laughter. He continued writing. "I do find it interesting you used the word 'train,' Watson. You know that's what I'm doing, don't you?"

"Yes; it's not a case, no client has been here and you've said nothing of a fresh lead. I know you're keeping yourself sharp, if not honing even sharper."

"Precisely; by no means is my mind at rest. Answer me this, then, Watson: why will we not unfold tomorrow's newspaper to the headline, 'Sherlock Holmes Spent Wednesday Night Experimenting on Cigarette Ends Collected at Regent's!'"

"No one alerted the printers."

"Pawky as ever. You know what I meant."

"Well it's boring. If the cigarette ends had started a fire and wreathed you in smoke and flame as you leaped through the exotic plants saving a child--_that's_ quality material, Holmes."

"Watson." He turned to look at me, and his mouth was quivering. "My work may not always be captivating but you, my dear fellow, are never boring."

* * *

A/n: After I posted this I realized I might get dressed-down for making light of fires or children suffering or both. PLEASE don't take it that way. It's just Watson making up the most dramatic scene he can think of off the top of his head. *hides under rock*


	37. Bread

A/n: A touch OOC, perhaps--but terribly fun! XD

* * *

"You're still keeping that beetle, Holmes?" I asked in surprise, shedding my coat and glancing at my latest purchase once more before pocketing it.

"No, it's a different one." He turned his glass to get a better view. "I never realized what interesting creatures they can be, really."

The beetle traipsed across the desk, antennae wiggling busily.

"Holmes, I've been getting a suspicion, and when you say a 'different one,' it only strengthens it. Are we getting a beetle infestation?"

He put his eye closer to the glass.

"_Holmes?"_

"…'fraid so, old boy. I didn't tell you because…well…" he lay his index finger on the desktop and waited patiently for the beetle to climb up. "I fancied you'd go and buy beetle-wafers."

"Why would that be such a bad thing?"

"Well—" Holmes squirmed. "They're dangerous--terribly dangerous, Watson, you know that! A child might see it on the floor and eat it. What then? We'd have some pretty problems of our own!"

I was going to point out that, yes, this would be a problem _if_ tiny children frequently crawled about our sitting-room--but something made me stop.

I quietly dropped my new package in the rubbish bin. "We'll find another way."

Holmes nodded, brushing the beetle off his finger-tip and into a flask, followed by a crumb of bread.

* * *

A/n: I found the word "beetle-wafers" to be absolutely hilarious. Apparently they were wafers made with "red-lead" and were bought to kill beetles during Victorian times.


	38. Bed III

"Hallo, what are you doing up so late?"

"Researching my next monograph." He cracked open a prodigious volume and blew dust from the yellowed pages; like sand it fled from his breath. "It will be my most exhaustive yet; I'll be staying up all the night, and I don't expect to do more than scratch the surface."

"Speaking of things exhaustive—I'm afraid I can't keep you company this time," I said through a yawn. "I'll be heading upstairs in just a moment. Hope you don't mind."

"That's quite all right, Watson; I'll do better with—"

"Hm? With what?" I turned curiously in his direction, just in time to see the tail end of a yawn.

"Excuse me. I was going say, without distractions. I appreciate your company, but sometimes the mind works best alone."

"Oh, yes. That makes sense," I agreed sleepily.

"Stop that!"

"Stop what?" I blinked.

"Stop yawning! You're going make me—"

I laughed softly; he could not even keep his eyes open for this yawn. "Sorry, Holmes."

He cleared his throat and refocused on the text. "There's nothing to be sorry for; you're tired, you should get some sleep. I'll just—"

"Good heavens, Holmes, you nearly unhinged your jaw there!"

He threw the book across the room. "Confound it all! I'm going to bed!"


	39. Bark

a/n: I really struggled with this one, and my sister made a haiku as she watched me try to finish this chapter:

"Tris writes a story

With a set amount of words

It is difficult"

Thanks sis. ^^

* * *

I sat down quietly in my armchair with a stack of papers and pencils at hand. The snow spat at the window, but the fireplace was a bucolic grey tabby, bathing itself with myriad orange tongues. I was prepared for an afternoon of poetry writing, and just a little sad. I was expecting to be on my own for a fair stretch.

Holmes had shown every sign at breakfast of preparing for one of his occasional retreats in which he took to bed for days, and yet—unless my ears deceived, I was sure I could now hear slow, tired steps--and suddenly the door was being nudged open.

He padded in, arms full of clothes from his bed. With a small yawn he tossed them onto the couch and began the long, involved and cat-like process of settling down.

I tried to slip away with my materials once he was comfortable (to afford him privacy), but his brow darkened at my footsteps, and he made a sound—quiet, involuntary and most unhappy. I sat back down at once, and watched his expression return to tranquility.

I wrote.

_"When I was a boy I once found a swarm of hibernating ladybirds, and even then I wondered—was it more than warmth they sought in clustering near each other, beneath the bark?"_


	40. Baking

A/n: I read somewhere--forget where--that if a Victorian Doctor was paid a large sum, it might be wrapped in paper and left on a side table for him to take, so as not to make payment awkward. That struck me as a bit funny, I guess.

* * *

"Why Watson, you didn't tell me it was a special occasion! I would have picked up something from the bakery."

"Stow it, Holmes, you know I think this practice just as silly as you do." I dropped the paper-wrapped package on my desk. "Honestly, sometimes I wish people would get over their..."

"Aversion to discussing monetary affairs?"

"Yes, and nicely put."

"Thank you. Speaking for myself, I try not to overinflate the matter in my own business; matter-of-fact is the best approach."

"I think your clients appreciate it. And I did catch that pun." I sighed and put my hands to my waist, studying the package. "I should be grateful for pay, I know, but it's so ridiculous--as if society will crumble the day money overtly changes hands! Why can't people just accept that price tags exist, and that there's no shame in speaking openly of fees. "

"Well, I'd like that too. 'Twould simplify matters a great deal, if people saved dancing for balls and quit going into nervous caprices at the first sign of a ha'penny." Holmes shrugged philosophically. "We can't always have things our way, fortunately. Watson--I do have a bit of news to cheer you, though."

"Oh?"

"I happen to know Mrs. Hudson is planning on spending a good deal of time this afternoon baking."


	41. Believe

A/n: Set during Priory School, inside the inn of Reuben Hayes.

* * *

I heard the strong, easy steps of Holmes up and down the stone-flagged floor of the inn's kitchen. _I should have known 'twas a trick._

I let the thought go, for I could not cease dwelling on what he had recently told me, upon my offer to take a note to the police.

_"I need your company and assistance."_

I struggled not to make too much of that sentence; it was mere words, as temporary and feeble as the crumpled, bloody gorse blossoms. After all, Holmes was as skilled at twisting words as he was at "twisting" ankles. He had some deeper plans today, no doubt, in which I was a pawn.

I felt bitter sorrow at the knowledge that I was just that to him: a pawn, or better, a cog—an insignificant cog he delighted to move here and there, making the machine of his life run as he needed.

These dark thoughts buzzed before my mind like a disease-ridden fly, laughing fuzzily and rubbing its diabolical feet together in glee. I faltered, for just a moment, before crushing the thing dead and oozing.

Holmes had not taken a moment, not _one moment_, to turn over the idea of us parting ways. He wanted me by his side.

Once more I pushed away the doubts, and chose to believe.


	42. Train Tracks

"Looks like we're coming up on a stop."

Holmes groaned.

"Would you like to get off and rest? We can catch another train in an hour if you need. Holmes? Listen, neither of us knew this train would be so rough, but now—well, can't we change our plans round a bit?"

"Oh, do be quiet," he rasped between shallow breaths.

My own stomach was feeling slightly uneasy, so I turned to the carriage window, fixing my eyes on a distant oak tree. I had suggested he do the same earlier; he'd replied with a surly look and a sniff that was more miserable than haughty.

Presently the train wheels began to grind. I put my hand to the wall, so as not to lose my balance, and the train racked to a halt.

After swallowing his groans, Holmes lifted his head off his knee and looked blearily out the window. "Is this a long stop?"

"Not very. If you want to get off, we have to do it now."

He stood slowly, nodding. "Very well. At least we have no luggage."

We exited and sat quietly by the tracks together, watching the train lurch away from us.

"I find the irony appalling," Holmes muttered, tossing pebbles feebly between the tracks. "The one morning I decide to have seconds at breakfast…"

* * *


	43. Train Tracks II

A/n: So, picking up from the train sickness 221 (poor Holmes), I'm starting an arc and have not much idea where it will go. Let's find out! XD This second installment is quite low-key and fluffy, just getting things started and giving a little background information. ^.^ I'd like to think of a name for this arc, like my Spooky arc. Haven't thought of one yet.

Well, enjoy--and review if you have time and inclination.

* * *

"It's no wonder the train stopped for such a short time—I don't think anyone lives near here at all." Holmes closed one eye and tossed a pebble; it came to a clattery halt on the edge of a wooden slat. "Blast! So close…"

"Is the fresh air helping, Holmes?"

"That, and getting off the infernal train. I expected better from the South Western. Taking case notes?"

"Yes, just bits I was remembering. I'll need your help later, filling it in and all."

He put a hand over his waistcoat. "I'm filled in enough already. I don't know why I agreed to staying for breakfast—if a client really wanted to make up for lost time, they should--"

"Did you get to the black pudding?"

"Are you listening to me?"

"No, sorry."

"Watson, I've just lost a good deal of time to a simple three-pipe. I'm fortunate I didn't lose my breakfast as well. The least you can do is—"

"Sorry," I mumbled again.

Holmes fell silent, his long fingers selecting pebbles. He examined each one closely before dropping it in his ammunition heap. "No, I never did," he said at last, holding up an irregularly-shaped stone.

"Never did what?"

"Tasted the black pudding. By the time it caught my eye, I was finishing half a rasher of bacon."


	44. Train Tracks III

A/n: And a double 221 to get things cookin'! Hope you're liking this arc so far. ^.^

* * *

"Holmes, there are few things I'd rather than enjoy a summer's day doing nothing in particular with you, but I think I should fetch a timetable so we know our options."

"By all means, Watson; very nice of you."

The train station was a small brick building, attractively laced with ivy vines rustling in the breeze. The man in attendance provided me with a timetable, as well as several suggestions of places to visit if I went into town.

As I stepped outside, it caught my eye for the first time—a glimpse of white through the foliage across the tracks.

"Holmes?"

"Still here, Watson. Blast! missed again…"

"What d'you suppose that is, over there?"

He dropped his handful of pebbles. "Shall we find out?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We pushed our way through young saplings and past ancient oaks, crushing ferns underfoot and inhaling the scent they offered up. Holmes gave an interested "H'm!" as a white-washed shack came into view. It was crudely made, and had no lock on the door.

We saw everything plainly once inside, for light filtered through a hole in the roof. Masses of dark green ivy vines snaked through a crack in the wall.

There was a mug of some liquid on an old table—might have once been tea. When I looked closer, I found an abandoned spider web embroidering the space between the mug and handle.

Those were my observations, and I watched quietly as Holmes made his.

"It does appear nature was left to do as it liked here," he murmured. "The liquid in the mug baffled me for a moment, as it should have evaporated long ago, but look up—yes, a large crack. Naught but dirty rainwater in that mug."

"Can you estimate how long this building has been abandoned?"

Holmes rubbed his chin. "That's hard to say offhand, but I'd estimate not more than a few months. There are no dead leaves on the floor, so this is the first summer the plants have intruded. Did you notice the wasps outside?"

"Yes, what of them?"

"They could easily fly through the hole in the roof and chew the table, or build a nest in the corners--but they've not attempted the latter, and made little progress on the former."

Holmes tapped the edge of the table, and when I bent down I could see a nibbled roughening. "How can we know for certain?"

"A visit to town may be in order. But first, a little more inspection. I have a feeling there is more here than we suppose."

He turned to a corner of the room, and I noticed a stack of boxes.


	45. Train Tracks IV

There were three boxes—crates, really—coming just to Holmes's waist. They had no markings on them I could see, even when Holmes whisked away the protective tarp and exposed their sides. Of course, one side of the stack remained hidden, flush to the wall.

Holmes ran a careful finger along the crate top, taking in the splintered and worn appearance of the wood with a rare focus. He seemed to be memorizing every chip and mark. Fifteen minutes later, he still hadn't opened the box, and his brow was darkening.

"Holmes, do you think there's something dangerous in the box? Is that why you're so cautious?"

His hands stilled. "I'm uncertain what these boxes hold, but my instincts speak of nothing that will endanger our lives."

Only the wind spoke for a time, as the leaf-filtered light made the shadows dance.

"Watson, may I make a confession?"

"Certainly."

"I fear these boxes--not for any danger they pose, but for the complexity they may contain; I'm loathe to face that. Yes, I thought you'd be surprised. My brain loves a puzzle, as you know, but as we speak it has hardly a drop of blood to call its own. I feel it, and regret it, and I doubt my skills." He looked away, picking his nails and starting to blush.


	46. Train Tracks V

"We needn't rush to open the crates, Holmes; in fact we don't have to examine the place at all, if you don't want. It was only something to keep us occupied. Shall we go back out and wait for the train?"

"I'd suggest you do that, gentlemen."

The station master stood in the doorway, looking far different from the cheerful man I had met earlier.

"Don't you remember me, sir? I asked for the timetable."

"So you did, and have you checked it? You can already hear the train. You'd best leave."

"Is it private property we're on?" Holmes inquired.

"No. But there's no reason for you to be here."

"And no reason for you to mind."

His green eyes narrowed.

Holmes stepped in front of me, raising his voice as the train came into view. "My friend and I are unready to leave these parts just now. We have yet to wander through your charming town, something no one should miss."

"I tell you once more, you should leave _now_."

"Holmes, perhaps—"

"Now, now Watson; surely this man won't begrudge us an afternoon of exploration and refreshment in the town." Holmes held the man's gaze steadily as the train passed.

"Very well," the station master said at length. "I see you've made your choice." His brow was thunderously black.


	47. Train Tracks VI

A/n: A quintuple-length 221. Oh my.

* * *

After several blandly polite phrases to the station master, Holmes took my arm and led the way across the tracks, past the station and down a path that plunged into the shady woods. We had to walk a fair ways before reaching the town of Redburne, but our journey was by no means solitary; the path we tread was crowded with silky-petaled wildflowers on either side, and black squirrels peeped down at us, flicking their dark wiry tails.

"Why d'you suppose that man was so angry at us?" I asked at length, reaching out my hand to catch a seed pod as it spun down.

"Oh, I imagine he's having a bad day. Perhaps his toast was charred by a surly cook."

"Surely it's more than that?"

"You're reading too much into things, Watson, give your mind a rest." He gave a condescending smile. "Anyhow, that shack holds no possibility of brain-work for me, so I do hope we'll find something more fitting to occupy our minds in town. I wonder if they have a bookstore? It's always interesting to see what lies in those intellectual shops." Holmes paused, glanced casually behind him, listened intently and turned to me with a warm smile. "We're no longer being followed, so we can speak as we like."

"We—we were being followed?"

"Of course, by that unflatteringly suspicious fellow; he wanted to be sure we wouldn't double back. Now, Watson, you are free the rest of the day?"

"Yes, but I must return to London by the morrow, I have a busy—"

"Very good, by the morrow we'll be back," Holmes said briskly, studying his watch without checking his rapid stride.

"Do you really mean to visit the bookstore?" I asked after a brief silence, remembering various titles I'd been wanting to peruse. And, of course, it never hurt for a writer to see what was selling these days…

"Absolutely not, unless the scent runs straight through the door and round the stacks of mouldering--Ah! and here, at last, the foliage parts like a proverbial Red Sea before us, and we get our first look at the town. Come along, Watson!" His long, nervous fingers twitched at my sleeve, and we walked into the sun, along a sudden cobblestone street.

The buildings on either side were spread and quiet, keeping to themselves, with generous yards warmed by the sun. There were very few people in sight, which was not surprising, I reflected, tugging miserably at my sweat-plastered collar. We had just turned at a crossroads and were entering a district with a few small stores when Holmes paused, sniffing. "D'you smell anything, Watson?"

"Some type of liquor?"

"Yes; I fancy there's several varieties of scotch, sherry and ale on the breeze. Either a pub is in the vicinity or someone is hosting a tasting party in their yard. I suspect the former, and venture to suggest we turn on this road, for it is from that direction the scent comes strongest."

Holmes led the way through the hot and empty streets, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction as we stopped outside our destination: a small pub sitting between a sweet shop and a milliner's.

"Watson, I find my throat rather dry. Shall we go in for a drink?"

"Sounds perfect to me."

The pub had a friendly, cheerful atmosphere inside, and was quite clean and welcoming.

We each ordered a whisky and soda, and it was a relief just to cup the iced mug in our hands and feel the chill spread through our bodies, for the day was growing ever warmer. Holmes scanned the room; there were few people occupying it at the moment. He fixed his eyes on a young man, wearing working clothes, and lapping eagerly at his drink. Sweat soaked his shirt and hair, and he was daubed all over with white paint.

Holmes bade me stay, then took his drink and wandered slowly to the stranger's table. "Nothing like a bit of rest after a hard stretch of painting, eh?" He asked sympathetically.

The man raised his eyes. "Ain't it the truth? But I don't recall your face, mate."

"And I don't recall yours; I'm just passing through this town, my friend and I have a holiday, but soon enough I'll be back at the work, and blow me if I don't get worked like a bloody dog! If sweat drops were money, I'd be richer than the Queen herself!"

"_Ain't_ it the bloody truth!" The man let a fist fall heavily on the table before taking another gulp of ale. "I work my brush to the handle, and near die from the fatigue—who knows but I may find some other line of work."

"Now, then, we can't give up—we got to suffer noble-like," Holmes said passionately.

"But what's the use, I ask you? Slappin' paint on walls and doors, over and over—it's so degrading, mate, and so tiring. Round and round, always the same. Drives me bloody _mad!_"

"Now, wait a bit, everything's got to have a purpose, don't it? Don't get so down on yourself. After all, wivvout paint, well what sort of towns would there be? A lick of paint here and there, and things look all bright and spirited, eh? Painters—we're the ones who bring buildings to life, give people spring in their step—why, you might even say—we change the world!"

The painter blinked round eyes. "You really think so?"

"No doubt at all. Why, a shabby building takes down any town's moral a peg or two at least. I thought of that at once as I got off the train, just yonder at the station. I thought to myself, gaw, lookit that shack in the brush—ain't been painted for nigh on months, what a blemish! I'm surprised a chap like yourself ain't got commissioned to do that job yet, eh?" Holmes nodded firmly and tossed back his drink with convincing carelessness.

The painter's eyes grew rounder. "Lord, you've got a nerve to mention that place," he said, his hand shaking as he brought the mug to his lips. "Not for a hundred bricks o' gold would I lay paint on that shack, no sir."

Holmes shrank down, opening his eyes wide. "Can you really mean that?"

"I certainly can, by George," he said softly, his voice sinking so low I couldn't hear it any longer. Holmes held a hushed conversation with him for a few minutes more before clinking mugs and returning to our table, where we finished drinking in silence, paid and left the bar.


	48. Train Tracks VII

A/n: Now that I have a good chunk of the plot settled in my mind, the updates should come faster. (key word, SHOULD. XD) Hope you're enjoying, reviews always welcome.

* * *

We took a bench some distance from the pub, and I settled gratefully beneath the shade of a dogwood tree; I felt as if my shirt had been ironed on me.

"It's the hottest part of the day, Watson; from now on it only gets cooler. Now, I shall bring you up-to-date. According to the painter, several years ago two boys in this town—brothers, their surname 'Brown'--were found dead near the shack, their limbs removed and—"

"_Ugh!_ Holmes!"

"Well, if we peel back the layers of fantasy which rumor inevitably adds, I believe the boys were simply stabbed."

"Perhaps it really was as grotesque as he says; how can we know?"

"Think of it this way: if something so gruesome really did happen, and even a common painter knows of it, shouldn't it have worked its way into the papers long ago? Do you recall reading any such thing in the papers, in the last four years?"

"No, and I should certainly remember if I had."

"Precisely. That is one reason I'm certain their deaths have become legend-spun. In fact, I believe a visit to the local graveyard is in order; our painter was good enough to remember the boys' surname, and before we proceed further in the investigation we really must be certain we're not chasing myths."

"But Holmes, oughtn't we try to get a look at the contents of those boxes now, before the station master moves them?"

"No, Watson, that won't do, for that is what he expects. If he moves the boxes—which he certainly will—we won't hold it against him. On the contrary, he's adding a dash of spice to an already tantalizing case."

"Just hope it's a spice you like. Now then, Holmes, how are we to find the graveyard?"

"There was a town map pinned on the pub wall. Did you not see it? Dear me, Watson, we must work on your skills! It was on the wall to the right of the door. I took a glance at it as we left, and noted that the graveyard is near the western side of town, perhaps a ten minute walk. Are you fit enough? Let us be off, then."

--------------------------------------

We lowered our voices once we entered the graveyard, and I noticed Holmes took care not the crush the flowers laid here and there. We worked in separate parts of the yard, so as to be more efficient.

"Here is a 'Brown,' Watson; the date is far too early, though. Possibly a relative."

"Speaking of relatives, I've just found a Watson."

"And this chap's middle name is Holmes, so it all works out. I always thought it fitting that we be buried in the same graveyard."

I looked up sharply, but his face was hidden behind a gravestone. I continued my search, and at the end of the row I called him over.

We stood before the two graves. "The names are right, and the death dates are identical---four years ago today."

Someone cleared their throat behind us, and we turned round.

A young man stood on the other side of the graveyard fence, wearing a formal suit that made his pale face and childish freckles appear sad, and somehow forlorn. He held a bunch of wildflowers in his hand. They had been picked clumsily, but he held them with great care and attention. "You knew them?" He said softly, looking to the graves.

"No, we did not," Holmes replied, "but it seems you did."

He nodded, looking down and setting his jaw for a moment as he opened the gate. "Yes—yes, we were good friends. May I ask…?"

"We are investigating the cause of their deaths."

His eyes dimmed as he gently latched the gate.

"Do you know anything, or recall anything, that might help?"

"Might help what?" His gaze was fixed on the epitaphs; he blinked suddenly and turned to us, though his eyes were not quite focused. "Oh…the investigation, yes. I'm in quite a fog to-day, I really can't…"

"Our presence here was most unexpected, I'm sure," I put in.

"Yes; I'm the only one who comes on the anniversary nowadays," he said at length, shifting the flowers to his other hand.

"And do you recall—"

I pulled my friend aside. "We're upsetting him, Holmes, you must leave him be. He came here to grieve, and he still needs to. Offer to meet him for dinner, why don't we, and discuss it then?"

Holmes was obviously displeased, but with a final glower at me he turned round and asked politely, "Would you care to dine together later today? If you were willing, you might be able to aid in the investigation."

He nodded slowly. "All right…yes, I think so. Is half past six agreeable?"

The rest of the afternoon found Holmes and I beside a brook that bordered the town. He began unlacing his shoes, and it seemed so sensible to me that I followed suit. We lay our shoes and stockings in a neat pile by a prodigious elm, and sat on the grassy bank. As we cooled our bare feet in the water, we discussed the construction of family trees, among other necropolis-inspired topics. At last we fell silent and listened to the afternoon breeze.

* * *


	49. Behind

A/n: Commercial break! Sort of. Hope you don't mind a quick break from the arc. ^^

* * *

"Watson! Come to visit, have you? Sit down, and let us have a talk."

I approached the old armchair, only to feel my smile grow stiff and uncertain.

Holmes shook his head in mock despair. "You'd never know there was room for more than one person in this flat. Dear me, how my papers and books take over. Just pour us some brandy while I excavate your armchair."

"No trouble at all," I said with a light laugh, stepping to the sideboard. I tried on different smiles, studying my reflection in the polished wood as Holmes worked busily.

"I don't think I'm ready for brandy," I decided suddenly, turning round. "I'd rather see my old room."

"Watson I'd rather you—not do that. It may not be as you remember."

"Oh come now Holmes, I just want to see it."

"Very well; you may as well know, then, that I've converted it to a storage room. There's very little to see except boxes, and the window is boarded up. Nothing to see at all, really." Holmes gazed at nothing, and for a moment the despair was not mock.

I returned quietly to the sideboard and poured us both a drink. We sat together a long time, and I absorbed the truth.

He could not bear the empty spaces I'd left behind.


End file.
